


a war of words

by Sixthlight



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: 1951 Waterfront Lockout, Canon Relationships, Gen, Historical, Inspired by Real Events, New Zealand, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:34:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26401990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sixthlight/pseuds/Sixthlight
Summary: “Pamphlets,” Yusuf said, stowing it next to the last two food parcels they had yet to deliver. There were dark smears on his fingers; ink, not blood, Nicolò knew the difference on his skin even by moonlight.
Comments: 17
Kudos: 208





	a war of words

“Turn the engine off, Book,” Andy said. “It’ll only bring trouble.”

“And if we need to move fast?” Booker responded pointedly, but it rumbled into silence all the same. It wasn’t much past nine pm, but it was dark and quiet. With the van’s engine off, Nicolò could hear the two-tone hoot of some sort of owl, for all that they were in the city proper, only a few twisting streets away from the Parliament building. What an odd, new land.

Nicolò looked back up the quiet, narrow, dead-end side-street they were parked on, and then back at Booker. “You think we’re going to out-drive anybody in this city? On these excuses for roads?”

Booker gave an excessively French shrug. “It might be fun to try.”

Andy slouched back in her seat, her hand absently tapping the labrys held between her knees. “As long as we don’t go off any more cliffs. The van _is_ borrowed, and I don’t think the, ah, the wharfies could afford to replace it.”

“That was _one time_ ,” Booker said, and they probably would have settled in for a comfortable argument about who was the worse driver, which would have ended either in an appeal to Nicolò for judgement or more probably his scapegoating, he was fairly certain, if Yusuf had not appeared around the corner of the house. He was not carrying the box he’d taken in as if it were empty, but he was not moving more quickly than he should, either.

Nicolò got out and opened the boot.

“Pamphlets,” Yusuf said, stowing it next to the last two food parcels they had yet to deliver. There were dark smears on his fingers; ink, not blood, Nicolo knew the difference on his skin even by moonlight. “I had to help them with the press. And then it turned out that the lady of the house was a nurse in the North African campaign, and wanted to know everything up to and including the names of my great-grandparents, in case perhaps she had made the acquaintance of my family.”

“They did that up in Russell in ’73, remember?” Andy was barely audible; they were all keeping their voices low. “We had to say where we were from, and our parents, and their parents, and rivers and mountains and ah, I forget what else.”

“We weren’t here in 1873,” said Booker. “1773? Did anybody even know these islands were here in 1673?”

“Well, the locals did,” said Yusuf. “But no, 1773, we were on board a whaling ship on our way to the American Revolution, not that we knew that then. But we stopped here a little while first. Not this city, the other end of the island.”

“Warmer than here,” said Nicolò, shutting the boot as gently as he could. He’d seen much colder winters, but there was a stiff wind blowing all the way up from the southern ice. Or so he imagined; they’d never been that far south, not yet. Perhaps one day.

“Hah, you think this is cold,” said Booker, who never passed up a chance to insist that nobody had ever been as cold as he and his fellow soldiers when they’d marched into Russia.

“I’ve been warmer,” Nicolò said, which prompted Yusuf to put an arm around him, as intended.

They got back in the van. “I have an address for the pamphlets,” Yusuf said. “And – two more parcels to deliver? ”

“Yes,” said Andy, cupping her hand over her electric torch. “This handwriting is terrible. Torlesse St in Thorndon, and…bah, give me a minute.”

“When you said we were going to help these New Zealanders fight for their rights,” Booker said, starting the van once more, “I didn’t think it would be delivering food to women and children, and passing on illegal pamphlets.”

“If that’s all it is, then something’s gone right in our lives for once,” said Andy. “You itching for a fight, Book?”

“I’m not complaining, no. Just – the quiet life. How long’s that going to last?”

“As long as it usually does,” she said, her eyes glinting in the moonlight.

Yusuf tangled his hand with Nicolò’s for a second, the gritty-wet of ink transferring itself, skin to skin. “They said thank you too many times. The children are kept from others at school, so their friends can’t share their lunches. It’s a different kind of war, Book, that’s all.”

Booker muttered some profane and unflattering things about the New Zealand government under his breath, half in French and half in English; nothing Nicolò would have said aloud himself, but certainly nothing he disagreed with.

“No, no, you need to go right -” Andy said abruptly – she was the worst at directions – and they lurched around the corner, paper and food shifting in the back, on their way to brighten the eyes of another quietly despairing household. Hunger was such a vicious weapon. Down the hill, the moon caught a break in the clouds and, for a few seconds, cast a line of light across Wellington Harbour. It was gone again just as quickly.

“A beautiful night,” said Yusuf, catching his eye.

Nicolò smiled. “Yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by someone finding [a screenshot from Copley's Stalker Board](https://sixth-light.tumblr.com/post/624963815539359744/itsrottenvibes-mentions-of-andy-comrade) associating Andromache with 'Communist Influence' in Aotearoa New Zealand, which immediately made me think of the [1951 Waterfront Lockout](https://teara.govt.nz/en/strikes-and-labour-disputes/page-7), the most infamous civil disturbance in NZ of the mid-20th century. There aren't a lot of wars the Old Guard could have got involved with post-European arrival in my country, but the Stalker Board focused on their work helping people, and this would have been a chance to help. 
> 
> I think the team are probably speaking Italian (as it seems to be their common language) in this fic and I need you to imagine that all the dialogue is in Italian except the word 'wharfies', pronounced with extreme confusion.


End file.
